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I Not, mother, yours to weep,
T is not yours, O mother, to complain,
Though nevermore your son again
Shall to your bosom creep,
Though nevermore again you watch your baby sleep.
Though in the greener paths of earth,
We wander; and no more the birth
Of me whom once you bore,
Seems still the brave reward that once it seemed of yore;
Though as all passes, day and night,
The seasons and the years,
From you, O mother, this delight,
This also disappears
Some profit yet survives of all your pangs
The child, the seed, the grain of corn,
The acorn on the hill,
Each for some separate end is born
Each must in strength arise to work the
So from the hearth the children flee,
By that almighty hand Austerely led; so one by sea
Goes forth, and one by land;
Nor aught of all man's sons escapes from that command.
So from the sally each obeys
Blindfolded loth have trod:
Nor knew their task at all, but were the
tools of God.
And as the fervent smith of yore
Beat out the glowing blade, Nor wielded in the front of war
The weapons that he made,
But in the tower at home still plied his ringing trade;
So like a sword the son shall roam
On nobler missions sent;
And as the smith remained at home
In peaceful turret pent,
So sits the while at home the mother well content.
THE SICK CHILD
Child. MOTHER, lay your hand on
O mother, mother, where am I now?
Why am I lying awake so late?
Mother. Fear not at all: the night is still. Nothing is here that means you
Nothing but lamps the whole town
And never a child awake but you.
Child. Mother, mother, speak low in my
Some of the things are so great and
Some are so small and far away,
I have a fear that I cannot say.
What have I done, and what do I
And why are you crying, mother dear?
Mother. Out in the city, sounds begin Thank the kind God, the carts come in!
An hour or two more and God is so kind,
The day shall be blue in the windowblind,
Then shall my child go sweetly
And dream of the birds and the hills of sheep.